Voices
by At A Venture
Summary: During the second episode of Season 6, Bargaining, Buffy comes back to life.


Voices

Before air rushed all at once into expanding lungs; before bones fused with decaying flesh, Buffy Summers remembered the piercing, stunning light. It had once filled every part and parcel of her soul, and had she a body- light would have penetrated every orifice, every pore of that mortal body. A pair of small green eyes frenzied, searching for an inkling of that light, perhaps hidden away. Her fingers outstretched, grazing against a tattered satin drape that dressed her recumbent form. Darkness, thick as tar and black as pitch, consumed every portion of the tight place in which she found herself. It seemed centuries ago that she had needed to express herself in any way, to speak or to smile or to know peace and joy. Yet here, in this darkness, horror swallowed every emotion. A scream welled in her throat, scratching at her voice box and clawing at her tongue. When at last she parted her lips, the sound died to silence.

Claustrophobia was instant. The walls seemed to ooze toward her, hiding in the dark to confuse her, muddle her bearings on reality. Her arms spread as wide as could be allowed, jutting sharply against thick oak walls. The bones in her fingers cracked with strain as she tested the boundary above her, finding the roof only a few inches from her face. The silk drape, which lined the lid of her coffin, hung loosely, smothering her nose and mouth like a pillow placed over a child's head. Her breast heaved while she struggled not to cry.

With five fingers balled into a tight fist and every ounce of strength behind it, Buffy punched upward, straight into the coffin lid. Pain streamed through every muscle, wrinkling her features into creases. Gritting her teeth, she withdrew her fist and threw it again, smashing against the wood. In response, it cracked and whined, but refused to give. Beneath a tasteful black dress, Buffy's chest bounced with each short, shallow breath, stolen from the dwindling oxygen contained in the small box. Another punch and the lid cracked. A tiny hole, no bigger than the width of a finger, allowed a trickle of dirt to fall against her forehead and mix with her tangled blond hair.

Persistently, the Slayer tore at the hole, yanking away chips of cracking wood, driving splinters into her hands. Rivulets of blood dripped along the facets of her palms and pooled in the crevice of each wrist. Clumps of damp soil rolled out of the widening hole, dragging in the scents of mold and decay. Large, pink earthworms wriggled anxiously against Buffy's ankles and thighs, looking for a route of escape. All the while, the Slayer continued to dig.

It seemed hours before a lonely hand clawed its way to the surface, struggling in the sudden burst of cold evening air. Six inches in every direction, the ground shook and sank, dissolving around Buffy's emerging body. Her face was streaked with mud and grime, and her hands had been reduced to a shredded, bloody mess. The dress, stockings, and shoes she'd been buried in were torn and ratty. Everything about her carried the sickly-sweet stench of death.

Crawling across the dewy grass on her knees, Buffy threw her ragged hand against the first solid object within her reach. The stone was cold, slightly dripping with fresh dew soaking into its face. A trembling began at her lower lip, cascading down to her thin torso and still shaking at the tips of her toes. Before her eyes, the gravestone glared down at her, bearing a foreboding, horrific message. The granite seemed to creak between her fingers as Buffy pulled herself up from the ground and stood uneasily on heeled shoes sinking into the mud. Beyond her, the small city of Sunnydale gazed quietly into the night.

In Sunnydale, life went on as though the city was not plagued by demons, vampires, and the forces of evil. Classes at the small university went on, day after day. Businesses ran smoothly, occasionally promoting a sale of goods and services. Cars drove peacefully along the few roads that crisscrossed the suburban metropolis. No one ever seemed to pay attention to the do-gooders that patrolled the streets after sundown, hunting the creatures that hid in the shadows. In the course of three months, Sunnydale had changed.

The city was deathly silent, so unearthly quiet as to instill a new kind of fear. There were no cars on the road. There were no vehicles in driveways, no automobiles parked along the sidewalks, and no lingering scent of anything even remotely related to travel by wheels. Every single residence in town had plywood boards and 2X4s hammered against windows and doors. Broken glass littered the sidewalks. Mailboxes had been torn from their posts and abandoned on yellowing lawns. What streetlights weren't broken were dim and flickering. The city had been abandoned, and not a single soul seemed to have lingered behind.

The wobbling heels of Buffy's shoes left a clicking echo on the walls of dark, empty buildings as she crept cautiously down the center of Main Street. Her eyes dashed from one side of the street to the other, peeking into alleys and swiveling around shadowed corners. At the curve of the road, she came to an abrupt halt. Her brow furrowed with confusion as she gazed slowly up at a defaced blue sign. Slivers of light danced out onto the street between drawn window shades, and the unmistakable whisper of voices drifted out to meet her.

Under a hazy lamp, crossing the street while muttering, Xander Harris carried a small pink box. In an unprotected Sunnydale, there were only two types of accessible food: the kind you found in a can and doughnuts from the creepy pastry guy. For six years, the Scooby Gang had run efficiently on a steady supply of jellies, glazed, and powdered doughnuts. Canned goods were really only sought out to break the monotony of strawberry jam oozing out of the glossy hole of a fatty pastry. But after a night of an unsuccessful rising of the deceased, the Scoobies opted for something a bit more nostalgic than cold ravioli.

In the silent night, Buffy seemed to blend. Had she remained hidden in the shadows, tucked beneath the ratty awnings of the Sunnydale coffee shack, she might have watched Xander Harris stumble down the remainder of the dusty sidewalk and clutch the bell above the door of the Magic Box before it could cough out his entrance. Instead, the Slayer shuffled slowly out into the street to get a better look at him. She stood in a crouched state, as though ready to spring up and attack anything that dared to cross her path. Yet, when Xander turned his head to investigate the rustle of movement through squinty eyes, Buffy could do no more than stand there like a deer in headlights.

Gooey red jam splattered over Xander's tan work boots as the box slipped from his hands and crumpled on the pavement. Oblivious, he stared vacantly at the figure hovering fearfully across the street, her eyes as wide as saucers. As though the pin that held his mouth shut had been plucked out, Xander's lower jaw fell open. His tongue lolled over his teeth, and a spit bubble of drool popped soundlessly. In the half-darkness, neither figure blinked for what seemed to be hours. Then-not unlike a vampire dissolving to dust before his eyes, Buffy vanished. Awkwardly, Xander raised out a hand, swinging at the empty street as if to catch her as she ran swiftly by.

Beneath a pile of scattered papers, haphazardly strewn manila folders, and a clutter of oddly-colored sticky notes, the phone rang. A thin, but well-manicured hand shoved aside a thick stack of paper products and lifted the receiver from the cradle, pressing it against her ear. Her voice was smooth and re-assuring, even in the delivery of an urgent message from the person on the other end. After a moment of dutiful listening, Cordelia Chase placed her palm delicately over the phone and pointed it in the direction of her colleague. In turn, he grunted and took the phone from her, shoving it between shoulder and ear. He stood stock still as he listened, his dark eyes widening slightly as the worried voice on the other end of the line reached the pinnacle of her distress call. As he spoke affirmatively, he reached deftly under another stack of jumbled case files and retrieved a set of keys, which he dumped into the pocket of his coat. Not a second later, he returned the phone to Cordy's empty hand and marched out the door, into the awaiting night.

Stumbling over a curb, Buffy wobbled back into the graveyard at the edge of Sunnydale. The lush grass was still wet with condensation, and parts of the damp earth had been clumped around in oddly rectangular plots. Wearing a mask of confusion, the Slayer slid down to her knees in front of a dug out grave. There, she pressed her fingers into the soil and brought a pinch of it to her nose. Behind and all around her, the trees that encircled the sacred ground hissed and twisted, despite the lack of wind. Buffy turned sharply, raising her arm above her face, just as a corroded knee came thrashing toward her.

Two men with sunken cheeks and a pale green hue painting their otherwise pasty flesh lumbered about above her. They growled menacingly, reaching down with tightly clawed hands to scrape at her hair and grab at her throat. She was on her feet in a second, throwing a kick against the cheek of one of her undead attackers. The heel of her shoe splintered as it cracked against his skull, dissolving the flesh that hung from his bones like wet toilet paper. The creature moaned, though he continued to rock stiffly toward her, swinging his arms almost uselessly.

Behind the first monster, the second seemed to have lost his initiative to give chase. He pivoted slowly and stumbled back toward the trees, occasionally hissing and groaning. Buffy did not avert her eyes to watch him go, nor did a pun about his curious zombie-like qualities cross her lips. Instead, she continued to pummel the first of her attackers, jabbing him in the ribs with her fists. Each blow to the stomach produced a resounding, horrific crack, breaking bones and dropping chunks of decaying flesh to the pruned cemetery lawn. Still, the creature loomed before her. Though he did not back down from his intended course, he did not seem to show any particular passion to win the fight. He did not snarl nor hiss as his companion had. Instead, he wobbled like a child's Weeble toy, and didn't fall down.

Out of the gloom, a mile from the scene beside the grave, the second of Buffy's attackers re-emerged. Behind him, half a dozen ghouls waddled into view, lumbering with their arms ever so slightly outstretched. Some seemed to glow in the dark; their flesh so pasty white. Others had rotted so completely that their eyeballs had sunken into their faces or disappeared completely. While a couple of the figures were grey, a few others were starting to turn a grayish-brown, the color of flesh as it begins to decompose.

Buffy's eyes darted from the oncoming foes to the decrepit creature standing over her. With a determined set to her jaw, her sore hands balled into tight fists, she spun in a tight circle, one leg outstretched. The kick came soundly across the throat, dislodging the crumbling head from the neck. It spun in the air, like a top on a string, and flew in an arch before falling lifelessly to the ground, seven feet from its host. The creature bent at the knees and crashed to the ground, its torso slamming against the wet grass.

The road leading into town from the west bristled with dust as a shiny black Chrysler convertible screeched past a small "Welcome to Sunnydale" sign. Angel leaned his elbow out over the driver's side door and peered into the uneven blackness, brightened only by the occasional street lamp. On the passenger seat, his cell phone began to buzz and squirm, the LED screen notifying him that the call was from Wesley. With a growl, he swiped at the device, tossing it off the seat and onto the floor. It buzzed for a moment longer, and went quiet.

The eerie silence of the suburban town seemed to dishearten even the most world-weary of vampires. With his foot partially on the brake, Angel eased down the road, creeping along at only two miles per hour. Frequently, his eyes darted to the rear view mirror, where a crossbow sat in plain sight. The main road drifted into the path along the cemetery, a popular attraction for residents of a Hellmouth. Among the shady stones, Angel caught the scent of rot and decay wafting through the air. He sank his heel into the brake in front of a decapitated corpse, lying alone alongside a disturbed grave. Swiftly shaking his head with disgust, he put the car into gear and continued moving.

Tears glazed her eyes as Buffy pulled at the five foot by seven foot board covering the front door and a portion of the window at her home on Revello Drive. Her hands were so worn and bloody; they were virtually useless against the plywood cover. The material cracked and splintered, but would not come loose from the nails and staples that held it steadfast. She was nearly to the point of screaming when a gentle hand fell on her shoulder. Buffy's body went limp. Her hands fell from their effort and hung loose at her sides. The hand, cold but oddly warm with familiarity, moved up to cup her face and turn her chin upward. She blinked slowly, taking in the low brow and the dark, brooding eyes. His mouth was turned down but he appeared strangely pleased, almost serene. Silence stretched out between them, but words seemed to pass from his eyes to hers, until, after a moment of nothingness, Buffy stepped up to press her cheek against his chest.

Angel brushed his palm lightly through Buffy's tangled, dirty tresses. He closed his eyes and inhaled the warm scent of her soul, buried far beneath the grime and confusion and pent up emotion that seemed to plague her. Within a heartbeat of Buffy's affectionate pause, she stepped back and turned once more to the barrier. Together, vampire and Slayer pulled at the board, yanking with all their strength until it came loose from the window and cracked apart. Together, they crawled through the empty frame, landing in the dusty chaos of the living room.

It appeared as though they'd missed a war over the furniture. Tables and chairs were scattered in pieces across the floor. Porcelain and glass shards lie haphazardly on the floor, glinting ominously in the small amount of light brought in through the uncovered window. The shell of the sofa was ripped open, with chunks of polyester fill littering the floor like fallen clouds, and the cushions were missing entirely. Angel and Buffy exchanged looks of concern, before Buffy marched toward the stairs.

Before advancing behind her, Angel wandered into the kitchen, noting the opened cabinets and ransacked refrigerator. Curiously, he flicked the light switch off and on, then off again. The power was out, and it was possible that it had been out for quite some time. From the kitchen, Angel stepped cautiously into a bathroom. The mirror over the sink had been smashed. Some of the slivers were caked in a substance that looked eerily like blood. Sighing, the vampire crouched down and pulled open a cabinet under the sink. He rooted through bottles of household cleaners and in a cob-webbed corner, found an unopened bottle of peroxide.

Even in the near darkness, light seemed to shine from the gown. Buffy stood mesmerized in front of the dress, as though she'd never seen it before and was completely smitten. She'd worn the gown only once, and she'd died in it, falling into the clutches of the Master when she was only sixteen. Angel glanced from the paralyzed Slayer to the gown, glowing pleasantly in the chaos of the house on Revello Drive. In two-hundred fifty years of memories, he still vividly recalled lifting Buffy Summers, clad in this luminescent gown, from a pool far below the surface of Sunnydale.

Gently, his hand slid around Buffy's elbow, and he pulled her from her nostalgia and seated her on the edge of her old bed. Unlike the rest of the house, Buffy's room appeared to be intact, though the door had been left ajar. The sheets, though dusty, were the exact set that Angel had last seen on her bed. They had faded, but still revealed a pretty blue cluster of flowers, repeated in diagonal lines. The spread was white, with eyelet lace, and a collection of stuffed animals sat smiling alongside the pillows.

It appeared that only the white gown remained in the closet. Most of Buffy's other belongings had been placed in cardboard boxes. Some of the boxes were marked with labels in black marker: "Weapons," "Diaries and Books," "Sweats," and "Clothes." Others remained unmarked and opened. Angel placed the first aid materials on top of Buffy's chest of drawers before sorting through an unmarked box of clothing. Successfully, he pulled out a tee shirt with a faded cartoon character on the front, and a pair of matching shorts. When he turned back to Buffy, holding the clothing out over his forearm, she was still staring at the dress.

In a matter of seconds, her facial expression had changed from the furrowed brow and large eyes of worry to the sunken cheeks and frowning mouth of despair. Though she continued to face the gown, she seemed to realize that portions of the skirt had been consumed by hungry moths, while the iridescent glow came not from the fabric but from the hazy moonlight peeking through empty spaces between the boards on the windows. Buffy's shoulders slumped toward the floor as awareness seemed to weigh on her mind. Though she spoke not a word, her psyche seemed to tinker with the realization that the world around her might not be a nightmare.

The satin gown that she'd worn to her own funeral fell from her shoulders, a weight thrown toward the floor. When it had pooled around her ankles, Angel rolled the tee shirt between his fingers and slid it down over her head. Buffy dropped her gaze from the closet as she dressed, avoiding the concern in Angel's brooding eyes and the anxiety brewing within. The pantyhose and shoes were tossed into an empty waste basket, and the soft material of the shorts slid up over her hips. Crouching down in front of her, Angel placed the bottle of antiseptic on the floor and a few strips of cloth torn from a sheet. The tips of his fingers slid briefly against Buffy's knee, meant as a reassurance.

Though the peroxide might have stung the deep wounds on her hands, Buffy made no move to react. Instead, her head drifted up from its slump along her shoulder to the mirror hanging over her bureau. In its reflection, she found a sprout of caked and dirty blond hair, a sour expression, and a face so familiar and yet so completely unreal. A shudder burst down her spine and shook even the tips of her fingers as Angel wrapped them protectively.

With an arm slung over her shoulders and an opposite hand holding out the bed covers, Angel nudged her toward the sheets. Tears glazed Buffy's sharp green eyes as she crawled across the mattress and dipped her head into a soft pillow. At last, tucked into the bed linens as tightly as was possible, she turned to her Champion. The tears had begun to fall, streaking her face and washing away the grime, leaving pale stripes. She parted her lips, as though to speak, but only the small sound of an intake of breath passed over them. Knowingly, Angel slid off his shoes, and shrugged his jacket from his shoulders. With his shirt, he tossed the garment over the back of a chair. His scapula flexed as he lifted the sheet and crawled beneath it, dropping it as he pulled Buffy against the cool skin of his chest.

A cautious hand slid around Buffy's waist as she burrowed into Angel's comforting embrace. Her heartbeat had seemed to slow to a normal pace, and her shallow breathing calmed to allow a swallow of air to pass through her lungs. A few tear drops fell against Angel's skin, sliding down the center of his belly and sinking into his pores, absorbed before escaping. When at last Buffy was ready to speak, her mouth quivered, and the scent of fear wafted to Angel's nostrils like the smell of the air before a thunderstorm.

"Am I in Hell?"

End.


End file.
